


Consume, Consume, Explode

by philalethia



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Assisted Masturbation, Awkward Sexual Situations, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Undertones, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, Failed Attempt at a Threesome, Humor, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Sex Toys, Sexual Experimentation
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-17
Updated: 2013-05-17
Packaged: 2017-12-12 03:48:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,357
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/806858
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/philalethia/pseuds/philalethia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The problem with sex is that Sherlock apparently can’t have it without drowning in it. He and John attempt to work out a solution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Consume, Consume, Explode

The problem with sex is that Sherlock apparently can’t have it without drowning in it.

He’s tried. He can masturbate while finishing up experiments and solve cases while sporting a spontaneous erection, but the moment that John becomes involved, Sherlock loses the plot entirely. All the lights in his mind palace shut off, and his thoughts dissolve into a muddle of words like _fuck_ and _cock_ and _come_.

He fails to notice things. Like the moment John leaves teeth marks on his knuckles trying to keep quiet, why John’s injured shoulder is sometimes stiff after he’s penetrated Sherlock, exactly how long John has to suck on Sherlock’s prick before his lips turn that soft, lovely shade of pink. It’s maddening, all the details that Sherlock keeps missing while he and John are having sex.

He tells John this at some point, when they’re tangled on the sofa, watching crap telly and eating take-away, when Sherlock hasn’t had a case all week.

“So,” John says, still chewing. Sherlock can see bits of half-masticated noodles as he speaks, and finds it strangely interesting, being able to see the state of John’s food before he swallows. “You want to observe sex but not necessarily participate.”

The issue is instantly illuminated, visible from an entirely new angle.

“Yes,” Sherlock gasps, “precisely. John, that’s _precisely_ it. I want you to have sex with someone while I watch. Sometimes,” he adds hastily, lest John misunderstand. “Not always, obviously.” Sherlock thinks he would, in fact, rather saw off any number of his appendages than give up sex with John, however problematic he sometimes finds the act.

John, wonderful loyal level-headed John, is only momentarily taken aback. “You have someone in mind then?”

*

They turn to fetish websites because it is crucial that this person mean literally nothing to Sherlock, a concept that John seems to have difficulty grasping.

“Would you prefer a man or a woman?” he asks, and Sherlock groans loudly and wonders if John has been spending time with Anderson when Sherlock’s not been paying attention.

“It doesn’t _matter_ ,” he says. “Man or woman, the other person is background noise, the dull white wall beneath a coat of bright paint. I doubt I’ll be paying attention to anything in the room but you.”

Finally, John narrows down the search to a handful of usernames, which he passes on to Sherlock for a series of thorough and utterly invasive background checks. Sherlock chooses the one that he deems the most harmless, a banker named Simon, and John messages him to gauge his interest.

It is, in short, a disaster. Primarily because Simon turns out to be an arrogant prat who will not _shut up_. He groans when John kisses him and curses when he gets a hand under John’s jumper and says things like “Christ, you’re gorgeous,” and “I can’t believe anyone would want to share you,” and “Let me suck you off, sweetheart,” and the pet name transforms mild annoyance into incandescent fury. Sherlock wants to rend him limb from limb and toss the lot of him in the Thames.

That John doesn’t seem particularly bothered makes it even worse.

“Right,” Sherlock declares loudly. He launches himself forward so he can physically intervene before the idiot can put his mouth near any of John’s particularly sensitive body parts. “Thank you. That’ll be all, I think. If we require anything further, we’ll be sure to message you.”

“Wait,” says Simon. “Wait, you can’t just—”

“I think you’ll find I can,” Sherlock says, while John hastily replaces his jumper and fixes his zip. Unfortunately, Simon’s shock seems to be fading more quickly than Sherlock had hoped. Nothing for it, then; Sherlock will simply have to make him desperate for their departure. “Of course, I expect you know little about the behaviour of couples in long-term relationships. Three failed marriages in an eight-year period? Quite an accomplishment, I must say. You’ve lived most of your life in delusion and denial—”

“Sherlock,” John says. Although his tone is soft, Sherlock can hear the steel hiding just beneath it. He keeps quiet while John takes over, making polite apologies and ushering Sherlock towards the door.

And of course John has every right to be angry. After all, Sherlock has just single-handedly stood in the way of John getting a leg over, after Sherlock had been the one to broach the subject in the first place. But John is extraordinary and thus does not get angry at Sherlock. Instead, once they are on the pavement outside, he says, with a touch of humour in his voice, “Well, that went well.”

“It could have gone worse,” Sherlock feels compelled to mention, and John concedes the point with a smile. The knot of tension in Sherlock’s chest begins to unwind. “You’re not disappointed?”

“Course not. To be honest, I wasn’t actually expecting you to let me go through with it. You jealous sod.”

_Possessive_ is perhaps the more accurate term. Sherlock knows that John will never prefer anyone to him; John wouldn’t have inadvertently sabotaged all his own sorry attempts at relationships otherwise, and besides, John will never find anyone as consistently impressive and exciting as Sherlock.

It’s just that Sherlock doesn’t like when other people don’t immediately recognise this fact, and if he could fix a permanent sign over John’s head that reads _Lifeblood of Sherlock Holmes. Bugger off_ , he absolutely would.

However, that is not the issue at hand.

“Jealousy doesn’t enter into it,” Sherlock tells John. “The man clearly thought himself more significant than he was. Not to mention he refused to just _shut up_ and—”

“Wait, wait.” John holds out a hand and halts Sherlock both mid-sentence and mid-stride, so that they are standing still on the pavement, staring at each other. To the people around them, they must look as though they’re having a row, and Sherlock is starting to worry that they are in fact about to. “What do you mean he ‘thought himself more significant than he was’?”

Sherlock suspects, given John’s frown, that his wording might have been too blunt, but as always he can’t imagine what he should have said instead.

“I mean just that,” he snaps. “Why should I have to couch it in more polite terms? He insisted on sharing his opinions about your appearance, our relationship, and his own desires. He gave you a _pet name_ , John. He had clearly misunderstood his position in this encounter and his worth to you—or to us, rather. As I said before we even began this endeavour, he is _background noise_ to me. The less obtrusive, the better. Not to mention his utter—”

“So in other words,” John interrupts. In other situations Sherlock might merely continue to talk over him, but he does not want to row in public over sodding _Simon_ of all things, and talking over John will certainly guarantee a row. “He expected to be treated as an actual person with thoughts and responses, instead of some sort of a… a living tool for us to use?”

That is precisely it, but John says it as though by paraphrasing Sherlock’s words back to him, Sherlock should be able to see the flaw in his reasoning. He does not.

“In our communications with him, we were perfectly clear that we wanted a single sexual encounter, not a friendship, certainly not a romantic relationship. Why should I care about his ‘thoughts and responses’?”

“Because he’s a person, Sherlock,” John insists, sounding as though _Sherlock_ is the one being difficult and inexplicable. “That’s how people are. You can’t just proposition someone and expect them to stay silent, lie back and think of England, while you use them. That’s horrible.”

Sherlock has shown John again and again that he is not a good person, yet John is still surprised each time. This is usually a source of fondness for Sherlock—that John has such faith in him, that John thinks him capable of being a genius _and_ good—but sometimes, like now, it is vexing. Particularly because Simon _does not matter_ and yet is somehow causing John to become exasperated with Sherlock. Sherlock’s hatred for the man is growing by the minute.

“Fine,” he says angrily. “What do you suggest then?”

“Er.” John blinks. “Not sure, to be honest. Give me a few days to think it over.”

*

A week later, a parcel arrives for John while John is still on shift at the surgery. It’s unusually large, about the size of a computer box, and Sherlock can’t deduce what is inside based on the weight or the sound it makes as he shakes it. According to the address label, the sender is “Mailorder” and is located in Bath.

Sherlock finds it very, very intriguing, so he takes the liberty of opening it himself, since it will be nearly two hours until John’s shift is over. He expects to find some sort of household item inside, like a new duvet (since John claims Sherlock monopolises his in the night) or a set of pots (to replace the ones Sherlock “ruined,” according to John, by storing leaches in them).

What he discovers instead is a nude female torso.

Or, rather, a life-size model of a nude female torso. Even without the pungent smell of rubber, only an idiot could mistake it for the real thing. For one, the skin is too orangeish and smooth, the nipples actually lighter than the skin around them, and the proportions are borderline unnatural; a woman with such large breasts and such a thin waist would have developed an array of back injuries throughout her life. Clearly, then, this is an object designed to titillate men.

Sherlock has what he thinks is a rather solid hypothesis on why John would have bought such an item, although John is occasionally wildly and delightfully unpredictable and surprising. Therefore, Sherlock needs more data before he can be certain. He carefully replaces the box’s flaps so he doesn’t have to look at the thing any longer, then retrieves his phone from the desk.

He sends John a text: _Is there a reason you ordered a rubber model of a naked female? SH_

The response doesn’t come until after John’s shift has ended. John has apparently taken to silencing his phone again; Sherlock hates when he does that. What if he needs John and John is wasting his time examining hypochondriacs and patients with mild cases of flu?

_I’ll explain when I get home_ , John says. _There should be a penis in there as well._

Sherlock braves the parcel and its enclosed torso again, and finds that there is indeed a penis (attached to a pair of bollocks) in a cheap plastic package beneath the torso. It too is not an especially realistic representation. It’s too lustrous and uniformly coloured, and beneath the bollocks is a sort of concave circular base that is clearly intended to improve the ease of use rather than to add to its realism.

Now he’s fairly certain he knows what John is planning, but still he replaces the items in the box and sits down to wait for John’s return before he lets himself think any further on the issue.

John returns shortly after, shuffling up the stairs to the flat as though he’s too tired to lift his feet properly. He’s wearing a plain white shirt that Sherlock has never seen before and that appears a whole size too big, and dark-coloured speckles stain his trousers. There is also a very distinct and unpleasant smell wafting off him.

“You had to treat a lot of children today,” Sherlock says.

John nods. “Nasty stomach virus in the primary schools, apparently.”

“Two of them vomited on you.”

“Just the one, actually, but she did it twice and in two separate places. Dreadful mess. Hence the ruined shirt.”

There’s always something. Sherlock grunts, and John smiles.

“I see you opened my parcel,” John says, gesturing towards where it sits in the middle of the floor. “ _My_ parcel, you know, the one addressed to _me_.”

“Everything about your body language indicates you don’t mind,” Sherlock points out. “Besides, you’ve opened my parcels before.”

“Mm, no. Fairly sure I haven’t.”

Technically, he has, but Sherlock supposes John would see a difference between opening a parcel because Sherlock has asked him to and doing it unprompted out of sheer curiosity. It doesn’t matter, though. There is a rubber model of a female torso and a rubber model of a penis in a box in their sitting room, and that is a far more interesting topic than the opening of parcels.

“You said you would explain the contents when you got home,” Sherlock reminds John. “You are home. Explain.”

“Explain what? What they are? Why I bought them? You’re the genius. Deduce it.”

John is still smiling at him, teasing him. Sherlock is inordinately fond of John’s teasing smile because it is one of the smiles that John seems to save for Sherlock. If Sherlock ever saw John giving another person his teasing smile, Sherlock thinks he would murder that other person on sight.

His own smile is likely nowhere near as expressive or attractive, but he tries to smile back despite this, on the off chance that John is just as fond of it.

“All right,” Sherlock agrees, leaning forward in the chair. “They’re masturbatory aids, obviously. You bought them because of their resemblance to actual human body parts. You thought this would be a better alternative to seeking out living sexual partners, whom—as we discussed last week—I treat exceedingly poorly by ‘normal’ standards.”

“Sherlock, you treat everyone poorly,” John says with a laugh. “It has nothing to do with that. You said Simon was background noise and got tetchy because he didn’t act like it. I don’t think you actually want to watch me have sex _with someone else_ ; I think you just want to _watch me have sex_.”

That is… possibly true, Sherlock realises, though obviously he’d never thought of it before now.

“So instead of a ‘living tool’,” Sherlock says, steepling his hands in front of him, “you bought two literal tools. And you think I’d prefer watching you penetrate the vagina of a rubber torso.”

“Her name’s Jennifer, according to the website.” John kneels down beside the open parcel and lifts out the two items, then sets them side by side on the floor. Sherlock pictures John’s mortified expression if Mrs Hudson were to walk in right now, and smirks at the image. “I thought about buying a full-body sex doll or, um, one that was just the genitals, but… well, they looked a bit creepy, to be honest.”

Sherlock can’t imagine a more “creepy” sex toy than a headless, legless female body, really, so he supposes it’s a good thing John chose this one, if it was the best of the lot. “Does the penis have a name?”

“Um.” John picks up the package. “Peter, apparently.”

He’s giggling on the last word, and Sherlock can’t help but join in. He hopes they encounter a Jennifer or a Peter on a case, preferably one where Scotland Yard is involved. John likely won’t be able to keep a straight face, and then neither will Sherlock, and Sherlock loves having inside jokes with John, leaning close and giggling with John, while Lestrade and Anderson and Donovan and Dimmock and whoever else look on in bewilderment.

“But seriously,” John continues when he’s sobered again, “Sherlock, in the last five and a half months you’ve had me rutting against, among other things, the wall and the pillows and the bed. Do you really think you wouldn’t like to watch me rut against one of these?”

Oh, the bed. Sherlock had particularly enjoyed John lying flat on his stomach, rutting against the bed. John had had difficulty achieving a good, firm, comfortable friction against his prick, and by the end, he had been dripping with sweat and thrusting his hips erratically like a beast in heat, forcefully enough that the whole bed had shaken and groaned. The sounds he had made, as he clawed at the duvet and ruined the perfectly made sheets beneath, had been the pained whines of a man who didn’t care one whit how he sounded or looked. It was the most unguarded and mindless and selfish that Sherlock has ever seen him.

Even the memory makes Sherlock hard.

John notices, of course—John is hopelessly oblivious about some things, but he misses nothing about the state of Sherlock’s libido—and smiles. “Yeah. So… I dunno, do you think we can work with that?”

Yes. Yes, yes, of course they can. John once called Sherlock a “fucking manipulative tit,” but when John puts his mind to it, he can manipulate almost as skilfully as Sherlock.

And after all, if there weren’t another person there to consider, Sherlock would be free to get as close to John as he liked. And a rubber sex toy would never try to call John _sweetheart_.

“Fine,” he decides. “Let’s start with the penis.”

*

The concave circular base of the dildo is a suction cup, apparently, although not a particularly effective one. They try three times to suction it to the wall, and each time it remains there for perhaps twenty or thirty seconds before falling to the floor, sending John and Sherlock into a fresh fit of giggles at the sight of a rubber penis flopping about on their floor.

“Do we have any sellotape?” John suggests, and then they are sellotaping the fake prick to the wall instead. Sherlock stands with his back against the wall for reference, so they are sure to position it at a realistic height.

Oddly enough, Sherlock finds when it’s been appropriately secured that he likes the look of it. After all, the flat has a real skull on the mantel and real body parts in the kitchen, why not a fake knob on the wall of the sitting room? He can’t wait to see the reactions to this new piece of décor. Besides, when they remove the tape they’ll doubtlessly remove some part of the wallpaper as well, so surely it is better to just leave it.

Sherlock also thinks about the next time that John wants sex while Sherlock is busy. Now Sherlock can merely send him here, and John can suck on the cock or bugger himself with it until his lust is satisfied.

Sherlock finds that image rather inspiring. John bent forward at the waist, his legs shaking dreadfully from the effort as he drives himself back onto the rubber prick, crying Sherlock’s name while Sherlock is in the kitchen in the middle of an experiment. Would John’s cries of passion have an impact on the efficiency of Sherlock’s mental processes? That certainly seems worth testing….

But not now, obviously. Now John is going to give a blowjob, and Sherlock is going to watch.

Sherlock sends John to have a shower—he still smells strongly of vomit, after all—while he sits at the desk with John’s computer, checks his website and email, and masturbates. It is imperative that he not be aroused—he can’t observe John properly if his brain is addled with lust—and having a wank beforehand should do the trick, since Sherlock’s average refractory period after masturbation is approximately 37.4 minutes.

When John is out of the shower and reasonably dried, and Sherlock has ejaculated and become acceptably unaroused, they get started. John kneels, naked and hair still wet, on the floor in front of the rubber prick, and Sherlock, fully clothed and entirely dry, kneels beside him, studying him. He seems uneasy, staring at the dildo like he isn’t sure what to do with it, which is not like him at all. When presented with a cock—well, Sherlock’s cock, anyway—John tends to practically launch himself at it.

“Do you mind that I’m this close to you?” Sherlock asks, although he’ll be very, very put out if John wants him to move back.

Luckily, John answers, “No, course not. Just… feels a bit weird, doesn’t it?”

Interesting, that their positions on the issue have essentially reversed. Sherlock is intrigued, and John is sceptical. Fortunately, Sherlock has a lot of experience persuading a sceptical John.

He crawls closer so that he can press his mouth to John’s. Kissing isn’t something Sherlock generally enjoys. Too many fluids, too little stimulation, and his mind inevitably wanders. But John does, says that a good snog makes him feel content and relaxed, and true to form, Sherlock can feel the tension seep out of his muscles as they kiss.

By the time that Sherlock pulls back, John’s expression is so calm he looks almost dazed, and he blinks slowly at Sherlock, like he’s struggling to come back to himself. Sherlock strokes his hair and his shoulders, then lays a hand on the back of John’s neck and gently coaxes him into bending forward.

John goes easily, closes his lips around the head of the prick. Sherlock keeps his hand where it is for the moment, in part because if it were his cock being sucked right now, he’d be doing the same. (John had once said Sherlock was the grabbiest person he had ever had sex with, and Sherlock had been pleased with the distinction, that Sherlock could be distinguished from John’s previous partners in at least this one way.)

But, eyes closed, John seems to be doing well enough on his own; the uneasiness is gone from his posture, and his features are relaxed, content. So Sherlock drops his hand and gets himself in a better position to observe.

He has never seen John from this angle. He is always looking down, watching the top of John’s head bob or John’s top lip sliding along the base of his prick, maybe a glimpse of tongue depending on John’s mood, if he wants to make a show of being a tart. But now Sherlock can see the near-complete O of John’s lips around a cock, and he can see John’s bottom lip plumping into something like a pout as he suckles the head. He can see John pulling back occasionally to rub the frenulum with his tongue.

“The toy is made to resemble a circumcised penis,” Sherlock says thoughtfully. “Is it different from fellating an uncircumcised one?”

A wrinkle appears between John’s brows, and he shakes his head minutely with a low, short groan. An overall _no_ , obviously, but the wrinkle says there’s more to it. That’s fine; Sherlock can wait until later to get the more complete answer.

He studies the rest of John’s body. Both his palms rest flat on the wall, about where the legs would be, and because he’s leaning forward, his hands hold more of his weight than they would otherwise.

Sherlock crawls behind him, curls an arm around him, and presses his hand to John’s chest, measuring his heart rate. John twitches at the touch with a moan, and his mouth, focused on gently sucking and tonguing the glans, now begins to take the cock farther inside. Sherlock estimates his pulse to be just over 75 beats per minute. Useless to measure it now, though, when he doesn’t have a resting pulse to compare it to. An experiment, then; perhaps he can hook John up to a heart monitor to get a more accurate reading.

Out of idle curiosity, he abandons John’s chest in favour of his arse, dips his fingers between the cheeks, and circles lightly over John’s hole. Sherlock wonders if fellating a cock affects John’s body temperature, but of course he doesn’t have the equipment to check. Yet another experiment.

He’ll have experiments to occupy him for weeks now, and these are just the obvious ones. More subtle ones—the effect of John’s mood on his posture, a supremely detailed examination of his choice of techniques, an investigation of the effect of Sherlock’s proximity on his posture or pulse or temperature or technique—might last him months.

And best of all, there isn’t a third person here to get in Sherlock’s way or offer up his opinion where it isn’t wanted. This is more delightful than Sherlock had imagined. John is an absolute marvel for concocting this.

John is bobbing his head now, taking the prick into his throat and making a series of little moans around it, and as Sherlock’s fingers continue to circle, John’s thighs spread slightly, his hips tilting up as though offering himself. Allowing Sherlock more access to do what he likes, or asking to be stuffed from both ends? Sherlock rather likes either option.

“Good,” Sherlock tells him. He coaxes John’s thighs closed again, then raises his hand to John’s neck, curving his fingers loosely over John’s throat. He feels John swallow thickly. “Take it a little deeper.”

John does, and Sherlock feels him begin to gag, the very faintest spasm in his throat, his vocal folds vibrating as he lets out a tiny gagging sound. John quickly controls the reflex, though, and just holds himself there, perhaps an inch away from swallowing the entire cock.

“Can you take it deeper?” Sherlock asks, and John tries, but when he gags this time, the spasms are stronger and apparently more difficult to get under control. He pulls off a bit, breathing heavily through his nose.

Sherlock is thinking he’ll have to measure that, how much John can take, although his thoughts are quickly derailed when he leans around John’s shoulder and sees that John’s lips and chin and even parts of his cheek are soaked with saliva. The sight is arresting, quite possibly the most erotic thing Sherlock has ever seen: John’s chin literally dripping with drool as he tries his best to choke himself on cock.

Sherlock will have to measure the amount of saliva John’s body produces. Stop him every minute or so and have him spit. Sherlock will need a small funnel and a graduated test tube, both of which he has lying somewhere around the flat; he just has to find them. He can compare it to John’s normal saliva production, his saliva production when chewing.

Oh, that John’s body might produce as much saliva when he’s sucking cock as when he’s eating. Sherlock suddenly understands the appeal of the phrase _hungry for cock_ , John’s body itself wanting to devour him.

As though suddenly aware of Sherlock’s thoughts, John lifts one hand from the wall and makes as though he intends to wipe his chin.

“Don’t,” Sherlock tells him. He grabs John’s hand and urges it back to the wall. “It’s wonderful, John, you look lovely, like a cock-hungry tart. Do you want to be touched?”

John’s eyes open, and he nods, looking utterly lost. Sherlock realises he’s completely ignored John’s own cock throughout all of this—idiotic, a nearly unforgivable oversight, but thankfully John doesn’t seem to mind—and when he closes his left hand around it, he finds it so thick and swollen it must be torturous. He strokes it quickly and firmly in apology. John moans and returns to trying to fuck his mouth deeper on the rubber cock.

“No, no, no,” Sherlock says. “Just the head. I want to feel.”

With his right hand on John’s wet chin, he coaxes John back, and feels such a wave of exquisite, tender, fervent ardour when John obeys immediately, backing off until he is suckling the head, still moaning. When Sherlock presses two fingers to the corner of his mouth, John lets them slip inside.

It’s warm and wet, of course, and John opens even wider—his jaw and lips must ache by now—so that Sherlock can brush his fingertips against John’s tongue, feel as it licks lazy circles around the glans and flicks at where the slit would be.

_This_ , Sherlock thinks _, is how John fellates me_. He presses a gentle kiss to John’s ear, and closes his eyes.

John has never, to Sherlock’s knowledge, tossed off while giving Sherlock a blowjob, and Sherlock is suddenly thankful for this, since when John begins to come, his teeth clamp abruptly down on the toy and Sherlock’s fingers, and remain there, biting painfully, until his cock has gone soft. Then he pulls off the dildo, lets Sherlock’s fingers go, and slumps back against Sherlock’s chest, panting.

Sherlock curls around him, kissing his temple and stroking his stomach. As typically happens after he’s witnessed one of John’s orgasms—a pity, since he’d hoped wanking beforehand would have prevented this as well—a string of thoughts begins to cycle through Sherlock’s mind like the seats on a chair-o-plane, all of them ridiculous, all of them rooted in sentiment, all of them true. He bites down on his tongue to ensure that none of them find their way into the air where John might hear.

“Well,” John says after a long silence. His voice is hoarse. “That time went better, I thought.”

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “No more Simons.”

*

Despite its useless suction cup, Sherlock becomes inordinately fond of the rubber cock and bollocks, which after a short discussion (an “argument,” John calls it, which is ridiculous, since their arguments only ever end with John storming out of the flat and John did no such thing) John agrees to leave sellotaped to the wall. Cleaning it turns out to be an inconvenience and leads to a watery mess, which John insists Sherlock clean up, but overall Sherlock thinks it’s worth it.

(Mrs Hudson shrieks when she sees it for the first time and then gets peevish when Sherlock adamantly refuses to take it down (while John flushes scarlet and does not so much as glance at either of them). Now she gives it wide berth and seems content to pretend it isn’t there.)

(Once, Lestrade texts John to ask if he wants to meet at the pub later that night, and John allows Sherlock to text back and say that John will unfortunately be busy having a pint with his friend Peter, so perhaps another night. They laugh about it for ages, and then John lets Sherlock measure the circumference of his lips when they are stretched around the widest part of the dildo that John can fellate comfortably.)

Sherlock is so fond of the penis that he begins to think he wants one taped to a wall in every room of the flat. He feels his life would be immeasurably improved if he had constant visual reminders that John is content to gag himself on a fake prick simply because Sherlock wants him to, but John does not agree.

Specifically, John says, “No, Sherlock. Just… no. One knob on the wall is more than enough. If you put up any more, I promise you they’ll be taken down and burnt, and then I’ll be too angry with you to suck on anything for at least a fortnight.”

Defeated, Sherlock eventually suggests, “One more, then, and we won’t tape it to anything. You can’t bugger yourself for any extended period of time on that one, and I’d rather like to see if it’s possible to fuck you for so long that you lose the ability to communicate altogether.”

John agrees readily to that, and they order a second rubber penis and bollocks, though they then have to wait for it to be delivered. (No amount of persuading will convince John to pay for next-day delivery. “Good,” he snaps when Sherlock complains. “You could stand to learn more patience.”)

In the meantime, they try out the female-shaped toy, which Sherlock discovers is not as disconcerting if it is lying on Sherlock’s bed with John, naked and lovely, kneeling in front of it.

“So you want me to…?” John makes a vague gesture that would be incomprehensible if Sherlock weren’t so well-versed at interpreting John’s poorer attempts at communication.

“Perform cunnilingus on it,” Sherlock finishes for him. “Yes.”

John cocks his head as though the idea needs further considering—and perhaps it does, this is certainly not nor ever likely to be Sherlock’s area—before he shoves the torso higher on the bed, so its head, if it had one, would be resting on the pillows. Then John flops on his stomach so he can fit his head between its thighs.

Sherlock can’t see as well as he could with the dildo. The few inches of thigh that the toy has are moulded as though the woman is hiking her legs to her chest, blocking Sherlock’s side view, and John’s head and shoulders block much of the rest. Sherlock has to practically climb on top of John’s back and budge his head to the side if he wants to see what John’s mouth is doing—and he does, very very much. This is a part of John for which he has no frame of reference. He knows what John’s tongue can do to a cock but not to a clitoris; he wants to see what John’s face looks like when he’s lapping happily at a cunt.

Of course, relatively little of John’s face is visible, as he seems intent on shoving as much of it against the rubber cunt as possible, so Sherlock has to find other means of seeing. He slides two of his fingers alongside John’s tongue and concentrates on the way it moves.

Much more flicking, more small and rapid movements than when John is sucking on a prick. A smaller area, Sherlock thinks, of course smaller movements work better. Occasionally, though, John abandons his tongue altogether and just mouths, rubs his slick bottom lip against the clit and gently sucks at the labia.

The toy’s surface quickly becomes wet with saliva, and John’s face, pressed so closely as it is, soon follows. Sherlock sighs contentedly as his palm, which is covering John’s cheek, grows damp. More things to measure: the difference in saliva production, the difference in distribution of it during the acts of fellatio and cunnilingus. Perhaps Sherlock can put the penis and the vulva side by side and John can switch between the two, get his face positively drenched. Not for any sort of experiment, though, just because Sherlock imagines it would be a compelling sight….

He’s startled from his thoughts by John laughing, turning his head to the side so Sherlock’s fingers are dislodged and left to trail along John’s cheek.

“Sherlock,” John says, still chuckling, “I can’t do this if you’re going to keep sticking your fingers in my mouth. It’s awkward.”

“You were managing just fine a moment ago,” Sherlock reminds him. “Also, respiration, heart rate, pupils, the way you’re grinding yourself into the duvet—you’re aroused. It can’t have been that uncomfortable.”

“Your fingers were in my mouth, Sherlock; of course I’m aroused. Any time any of your body parts are in my mouth, I’m aroused, no matter how uncomfortable it is. It’s practically one of the laws of physics.”

That’s a lovely idea. Lovely enough that Sherlock decides to forgo the rest of the endeavour in favour of the one he’d wanted to try next, which John should find much more comfortable.

“Stay here,” Sherlock says, then climbs over John’s back so he can reach the bedside table—or, more specifically, the bottle of lubricant on top of the bedside table. Bottle in hand, he returns and shoos John momentarily away from the toy so he can get its vaginal opening slick with the stuff.

“That’ll be a mess to clean,” John says, watching him.

It probably will, although Sherlock suspects that, like the dildo, the mess will prove worth it. “It’s fine,” he tells John. “I’ll do it.”

When he thinks the toy is sufficiently slicked, he uses the bit of lubricant still smeared on his hand to stroke John’s erection. He intends to remain cursory and clinical, to lubricate it a bit and then withdraw, but when John’s quick inhale is followed by a weak moan and a thrust of his hips so small it must be unconscious, Sherlock can’t help but indulge. He strokes again, his grip tighter this time, and pauses at the head, circling his thumb around the slit. John’s responding thrust this time is a conscious movement, his moan stronger.

Sherlock makes himself let go and move back. If he doesn’t, he’ll likely not be able to stop himself from wanking John’s cock until it spurts come on the duvet and John is panting into Sherlock’s shoulder.

“Go on then,” Sherlock tells him. “Fuck it.”

John wastes no time obeying. He crawls forward until he can kneel between the toy’s thighs and slide his cock inside.

It’s fascinating to watch, how John’s jaw goes slack, his eyes close, and his breath stutters. As he thrusts fully inside, his expression twists almost like it pains him. Is this what he looks like when he first puts his prick into Sherlock? Sherlock doesn’t know; at the moment of penetration, he is usually lost in his own haze, enveloped entirely in the sensation that John’s cock—which is of average length (15.2 centimetres) but very thick (a circumference of approximately 14.8 centimetres)—will shatter him and that he has never wanted to be broken so badly.

As John’s thrusts begin to find a steady rhythm, Sherlock comes close enough to get a glimpse of John’s cock disappearing into the cunt, so well lubricated that it makes wet, squelching noise as John fucks it.

“May I?” Sherlock asks, motioning his intentions with his finger, and when John nods, panting now, Sherlock nudges his index finger alongside John’s prick, rubbing the veins along the shaft.

It’s as though someone has shot several thousand volts through John, his body jerks so violently at Sherlock’s touch, and the sound he makes is low, long, and needy.

“All right?” asks Sherlock, just to be sure. John nods again, then braces himself with a hand on either side of the toy’s waist and begins to fuck in earnest.

It’s not nearly enough, simply feeling John’s cock with a finger; Sherlock wants to _see_. The precise angle that John responds most vocally to, how the vaginal walls rub against him, and _oh_ , what it looks like when John comes inside. Perhaps Sherlock could buy one of the tiny cameras used in medical examinations, modify it for his purposes, and insert it into the vagina alongside John’s penis, then watch the footage afterwards. He’ll look into it, he decides.

He removes his finger and moves behind John so that he can stroke John’s bollocks, which are tight and heavy, the hair there damp with lubricant. John’s thighs part instantly, and his hips tilt up, spine curving attractively, as though he’s presenting his arse for a thorough fucking.

“Oh, John, you tart,” Sherlock sighs. He nuzzles at John’s neck, the tufts of hair at his nape which are slowly becoming matted with sweat. “You shameless, filthy whore. Fucking what I tell you to, spreading yourself open for me at the slightest touch. Have you always been like this?”

John shakes his head minutely. “You— _uh_.” He breaks off with a grunt, his arms beginning to tremble as Sherlock rubs the pads of his fingers along John’s perineum, ghosting over his hole. “Uh, Christ, Sherlock.”

Strange, how badly Sherlock wants to bugger him. The feeling is entirely mental—Sherlock’s prick is still soft, after all, and will remain so for at least another ten minutes—but it is strong enough to rival his physical desire at its fiercest. He wants John to sit on his cock and shake and sweat and cry.

“We should invest in a strap-on,” he tells John.

But John doesn’t seem to hear him, lost as he is in his own pleasure, driving his prick into a nice wet cunt while he teases his own hole against Sherlock’s fingers.

“Whore,” Sherlock murmurs, fondly of course, kissing just behind John’s ear. He takes his fingers away and uses his hand instead to bend John forward until he’s an arms-length away from lying flat on top of the toy. “You should come,” Sherlock says. “I want to watch you come in her—yes, fuck her, like that.”

Because John has lowered himself fully, pressed his face into the toy’s cleavage with a heavy sigh, and then it is the bed incident all over again. John thrusting like a mindless beast, his back glistening with sweat, the bed groaning with every snap of his hips as he clutches at the toy’s tiny waist, holding it still as he pounds its cunt mercilessly.

Sherlock lies down on the duvet beside him, stroking John’s damp hair from his forehead until John turns his head and looks at him with unfocused, half-lidded eyes, utterly lost. Sherlock can see it in his face when he comes: his jaw drops and his eyes close and his forehead wrinkles as though he’s struggling to understand something, as though the sensation is so good he can’t fathom it. Sherlock wants to take a picture of that expression, carry it around with him on his phone so he is never without it.

“You are a marvel,” Sherlock says. He runs a hand along John’s upper back, which is heaving as he pants, and waits for John to recover.

*

John was right: the female-shaped toy is a mess to clean. Sherlock dunks it in a tub full of sudsy water, holds its genitalia under the tap, and eventually just gives in and shoves his fingers in its twat to try and scrape the dried come and lubricant from its rubber vaginal walls. John stands behind him, shoulder propped on the doorframe, and watches in amusement.

“You’re wearing a condom next time,” Sherlock insists.

“That’s fine. Course it won’t help with the lubricant, but….”

Indeed it won’t, Sherlock realises sourly. He thinks they’ll have to reserve the act of penetrating the toy for very special occasions only, perhaps a few times a year at the most.

Except that barely a day later, John is penetrating it again, this time while Sherlock buggers him from behind, a hand clamped on the back of his neck, holding him with his cheek against the toy’s breasts. “Don’t move, John,” Sherlock tells him when he tries to wriggle on Sherlock’s prick or rock his own cock into the tight, wet cunt like he’s surely dying to. “Stay just—like—that.”

John comes eventually, then lies still as he is fucked until he’s so oversensitive he is whimpering and trembling, his arse clamping down greedily on Sherlock’s prick. Meaningless, sentimental words bubble in Sherlock’s mind and threaten to find their way to his tongue, but he manages to bite them back until they recede.

He is, he decides, rather fond of this toy as well.

*

The next parcel also comes when John is at work, and this time Sherlock doesn’t hesitate before ripping it open and snatching up the packaged rubber penis inside.

He tosses the dildo from one hand to the other, testing its weight, the malleability of the material. It’s meant to be identical to the knob sellotaped to the wall, of course, and fortunately it seems to be—no manufacturing defects or variations that he can detect.

Satisfied, Sherlock fetches his mobile from the desk and texts John: _Peter 2 has arrived_. _SH_

Surprisingly, the response comes only twenty minutes later. John must have either left his phone on vibrate today or is checking it more frequently than usual. _Excellent_ , he says. _Something to look forward to later. Are the two of you getting acquainted?_

A joke, of course—Sherlock can picture the little smirk on John’s lips as he had typed the message—but still the idea gives Sherlock pause. _Would you like to reverse our positions?_ he asks. _You could be the observer instead._

It doesn’t sound nearly as appealing to Sherlock, but if John desires it, Sherlock will do it. John’s satisfaction alone would make it worthwhile, and they have never engaged in a sexual act that Sherlock has not enjoyed, even if he had been dubious at the onset.

John responds ten minutes later: _I think observing is more your thing than mine. Though I did appreciate the image of your fingers in Jennifer’s twat._

Another joke, but again Sherlock pauses to consider the idea. John is fond of Sherlock’s fingers; he comments on them often in sexual situations—their length, their dexterity. The image of Sherlock fingering a female-shaped sex toy would likely make John ache for those fingers on him, inside him. Sherlock can easily picture his open, hungry expression.

Before he can respond, his phone lights up with another text from John: _Do I need to pick up anything at the shop?_

Sherlock thinks. They have plenty of condoms, though he would prefer not to use them unless John insists, and everything John will need to clean himself beforehand. Their bottle of lubricant is still a half-quarter full, which should be sufficient. Unless John wants to be penetrated for a particularly long time. Or wants to be penetrated multiple times. Or wants Sherlock after he is finished with the dildo. Or….

_Another bottle of lubricant_ , Sherlock texts. Just in case.

*

“Christ,” John sighs, much later, “you’re planning to ravage me, aren’t you?”

It’s a happy sigh, though, and as he speaks he is wriggling excitedly. Well, wriggling as much as he can on his knees and elbows in the middle of the bed, four of Sherlock’s fingers up his arse stretching and positively _drenching_ him in lubricant.

“When I shove that knob up your arse,” Sherlock tells him calmly, “I don’t want you to feel even a bit of discomfort. I want you so slick and open that your prick doesn’t soften in the slightest when I stuff you full of cock.”

John’s next sigh is cut off by a tiny moan, and Sherlock can’t help but smirk. Has there ever been a more exquisite sight than John Watson eagerly presenting himself for Sherlock’s use? Sherlock thinks not.

Although John might have a point. After all, John’s arse is so wet that he is leaking lubricant down his bollocks and thighs and onto the duvet, and anyway, Sherlock already knows how to ensure John’s erection doesn’t flag when he is penetrated.

Sherlock grabs the dildo from the duvet and coats it with the excess lubricant on his hand as he speaks. “Do you know what I think we’ll do next time? I’ll tape the cock to one of the chairs in the kitchen and let you sit on it.”

When the toy has been sufficiently soaked, he presses the tip to John’s hole, feels the muscle twitch at the touch, and begins to slide it gently, gently in. John lets out a breathy “oh” but remains perfectly still.

Smiling, Sherlock continues, “You’ll squirm on it, of course, like you always do when you have a thick cock in you, but nothing more than that. I want to see what you’ll do when you’ve a cock up your arse, and you’re reduced to helpless fidgeting to try and get it to fuck you like you want it. I wonder how long it will take before you’re mindless with desire.”

The prick is fully seated now in John’s arse, and to Sherlock’s immense satisfaction, John’s erection hasn’t softened in the least bit. He’s really more like Sherlock than he realises: occupy his mind, and his body responds favourably.

With a muffled grunt—John must’ve turned his face into the duvet—John inches his knees farther apart and lets his hips sway slowly, testing the stretch. Watching, listening, Sherlock realises a dilemma he had not foreseen: fucking John will allow Sherlock limited mobility and thus a limited view. His arms are only so long, after all, and his body only so flexible.

A problem, to be sure. How to rectify it? He could give John control of the toy, but John too has limited flexibility—and shorter limbs. The angle would be awkward; the possibility that John would hurt himself is higher than Sherlock would like.

Nothing for it now—John is already fidgeting impatiently, his hips swaying faster and more jerkily. With his free hand, Sherlock soothingly strokes his side, and John’s spine dips sluttishly, thrusting his bottom up and impaling himself even deeper.

The sight is… intoxicating: John’s skin and pubic hair glistening with lubricant, his hole swallowing the toy cock as though it has been starving for it. Sherlock is reminded of John drooling all over himself, _hungry for cock_ , and the things that Sherlock wants to do to him in that moment—sit him in front of the other dildo so that he is stuffed full from both ends, perhaps let him shove his own prick in the female-shaped toy, then keep him there until Sherlock can get hard again and fill that lovely, whorish dip in John’s back with come—are utterly obscene.

“ _Sherlock_ ,” John sighs. “Get on with it.”

Yes, of course; Sherlock reminds himself firmly of his purpose. These sorts of thoughts are what he’d wanted to avoid, why he’d tossed off beforehand. He lets the toy slip out three inches or so and then slides it back in, parallel to the bend of John’s spine. John’s responding “uh” is muffled, his face shoved into the duvet again.

On the second thrust, Sherlock adjusts the angle, tilts the cock downward, and John’s groan is louder, longer. A visible shiver runs through his limbs. More pleasurable, obviously.

Sherlock continues, varying the angle and depth until he’s found the optimal position: 40 degrees, 10 centimetres of its 16 centimetres inserted. John’s intermittent shivering has become continuous full-body shaking, and his back shines with sweat as he curses and cries Sherlock’s name into his own fist.

It is, Sherlock thinks, the most delightful sound he has ever heard. He wonders if John would let him record it, make it his ring tone, although he imagines not.

“Prat,” John says, a tremor in his voice. “You arrogant bastard, you just like teasing me.”

Keeping his hand on the suction-cup base of the rubber prick, Sherlock settles on his side beside John. It’s harder to thrust from this position, and if he keeps it up, he knows it is only a matter of time before he loses the angle, perhaps inadvertently replaces it with an uncomfortable one and shatters John’s headspace entirely. So he stills his hand and waits for John to turn his head towards him.

John’s hair is plastered to his forehead and temples, his eyes half-lidded and dazed. He’s been biting his bottom lip; it’s swollen, wet, and red. He looks desperate and debauched and as much Sherlock’s as if Sherlock had physically and permanently branded him.

He’s shaking because he’s holding himself back, Sherlock realises abruptly. He wants to squirm and writhe and ride the toy stretching him open, but he is keeping himself still, presumably for Sherlock.

“Oh, John,” Sherlock says fondly. “I never said you couldn’t move _now_.”

Although it gives him an idea—a brilliant one. He sits back up so that he can gently coax John’s legs out of from under him until he is lying flat on his stomach. John moans weakly when his prick—which must be aching torturously, neglected as it’s been—presses into the duvet, and Sherlock can see the moment John understands what Sherlock has planned: yet another rendition of the bed incident. He glances over his shoulder at Sherlock and makes a slow, wide circle with his hips, back against the cock and then forward into the duvet.

“Very good, John,” Sherlock tells him with a grin. He settles back on his side, still holding the fake prick steady with one hand. “What was it you said? I’ve had you rutting against the wall and the pillows and the bed, and wouldn’t I like to watch you rut against a toy? Mm, I think I’d rather enjoy watching both, actually. So why don’t you bugger yourself with this”—Sherlock nudges the toy forward just slightly, rubbing John so perfectly that his eyelids flutter shut and his mouth falls open—“and rut against the bed until you’ve made a mess of yourself?”

John doesn’t hesitate, and his first thrust is strong enough the bed groans and Sherlock’s slippery fingers are nearly dislodged from the base of the dildo. Soon, desperation has reduced John to a needy, sweaty, whimpering body fucking itself like a greedy whore, stripped of everything but his basest instincts demanding that he come.

Ridiculous, that Sherlock could have ever thought it a good idea to let someone else see John like this. Senseless with lust, vulnerable, and beautiful, and Sherlock had wanted to give an idiot access to the sight.

Sherlock huddles closer, protectively, kisses and nuzzles John’s jerking, trembling shoulder, as John groans and curses, “Jesus-fuck-and- _Christ. Oh_ ,” around a mouthful of duvet. When he comes, it’s almost violent. The headboard rattles against the wall, and John’s whole body quakes. His cursing dissolves into a stream of “ _fuck, fuck, fuck_ ,” and Sherlock makes soothing sounds into his sweat-slick skin.

“Out,” John declares suddenly, panting harshly. “Get it out.”

Sherlock’s body understands before his mind, and he lets go of the rubber cock, which slips immediately out of John’s arse and falls to the bed with a wet plop. John giggles—at the sound or sensation, hard to say which—and lists to the side, into Sherlock’s chest.

Sentiment rises like a wave inside of him—the knowledge that John can be toyed with and used, and that he’ll then nestle himself against Sherlock even before the aftershocks have passed, when he is still sensitive and weak, heaving from his orgasm.

“I adore you,” Sherlock murmurs into the damp hair at John’s temples. He immediately feels ridiculous for doing so and, to divert John’s attention, says the first thing, aside from his hopeless adoration of John, that comes to mind: “We should buy a sex machine. Is that what they’re called? Those mechanical devices that simulate sexual intercourse. You have a pornographic video on your computer that features one. We should have one.”

He realises a moment too late that this might perhaps not be a topic John is open to discussing just minutes after he has just fucked himself on a toy so forcefully that he will likely be sore for days.

But John doesn’t seem particularly taken aback by the subject. He simply rolls to the side so that he can raise an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Are you serious? Sherlock, we don’t need a fucking machine. Do you know what one of those costs?”

“Yes,” Sherlock lies. “Of course. I can afford it.”

And even if he can’t, then Mycroft surely can, and Sherlock can just picture Mycroft’s expression of horror when he receives the bill. Then they can leave it lying in the middle of the sitting room so that Mycroft is confronted with it every time he decides to come round for a chat. And meanwhile, when they’re alone, Sherlock can position John so that the machine pounds his prostate relentlessly, while he kneels in front of John, cupping his face, holding his head up so that he can see the precise moment when John’s eyes go half-lidded and hazy with pleasure.

In short, the reward would be well, well worth the cost.

“Later,” John says. “We can talk about it later when I don’t have lube leaking out of my arse by the litre.”

This is acceptable to Sherlock—more time to construct convincing arguments and to perfect his pleading half-pout—and he smiles indulgently while John rolls back to his previous position.

“And by the way, what you said earlier?” John says, settling himself back against Sherlock’s chest. “The feeling’s mutual.”

A shock of warmth in Sherlock’s chest; he can feel the ghost of it all the way to his toes as he curls an arm around John’s waist. “Ah. Good, that’s—good.”

“Mm,” John answers, and they say nothing else for a long while.


End file.
